


Tether of Yearning

by StupidFatPenguin



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarven Politics, King Thorin, M/M, Secret Relationship, kind of sort of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StupidFatPenguin/pseuds/StupidFatPenguin
Summary: Erebor rebuilds, and the Dwarf Lords demand that the King Under the Mountain takes a Queen.And so, Bilbo Baggins watches alongside the company as Thorin II Oakenshield ties his hand to another dwarf before all of Erebor and its allies—and if that same hand later that night lies on his pillow, fingers entwined with his own, well. That’s between Thorin and he.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 22
Kudos: 94





	Tether of Yearning

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot believe I'm back to writing Hobbit stuff after more than 6 years away from this fandom... wow.
> 
> I guess Bagginshield is the One OTP to rule them all for me, after all.
> 
> I'm aware there's probably not a lot left of us, but hey. Here I am, still crying over the Hobbit, and I'll be happy to have company if you want to cry with me.
> 
> Anyway. Welcome to the fic. Enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: All these years of tears and heartache, and I still do not own The Hobbit.

It’s a grand ceremony, Bilbo must concede.

It has to be, after all: a ceremony worthy of the King of a reborn dwarven kingdom, the greatest of them all. Erebor deserves it, to be rewrought from its ruin, its fallen memories replaced and replenished with rich splendour and joyous occasions.

The halls of the mountain are filled with banners and lights and bustling life. If one did not look too keenly one might even overlook the rubble or the cracked floors or broken statues that had yet to be covered in the restoration process. The mountain is yet healing, after all—but the occasion of this day might be enough for its inhabitants to forget, if only for a short while.

Durin-blue and golden threaded banners fill the Hall Under the Mountain, while star-like gems, reflecting the bright daylight from outside illuminate the stone and the crowds gathered there. The galleries are packed to the brim with excited spectators, dressed in their finest wears, bedazzled in prime materials, sturdy armour and gleaming stone, all befitting the station of their wearer.

Foreign dignitaries have come from near and far. The men of Dale and Esgaroth are invited. Bilbo even spots Thranduil’s tall head among them, next to Bard the Bowman, Lord of Dale, and his family. They are quite far back, and yet not too far for it to be considered insulting; a fine line of subtle detail that has carefully been worked out over the last few years of renewal, since the battle had been won and dwarves, men, and elves all lived to see its end—and its aftermath.

The Company, of course, have prime seats to the proceedings. They are indeed only bested by Lord Dáin, who is officiating, and the bride’s kin, situated across the hall from where Bilbo stands, on the throne’s right-hand side.

Gandalf stands not far from the company, only a gathering of guild-masters between them. He seems quite busy talking with the odd dwarf lord now and again, and the one time he meets his hobbit friend’s searching eyes it is with an amiable smile and a nod towards the front, directing Bilbo’s attentions there instead.

It is about to begin.

A loud horn sounds, followed by a myriad of sweet flutes and fiddles, an orchestra of whispering trombones and drums, and Thorin enters from the Eastern door, looking every bit the king he is.

Bilbo almost snorts, for he and those who know him now knows Thorin, the King who was once exiled, who had lived through the thrall of wealth and dragon treasure, would refrain from the atrocity of overbearing formal wear, if he could.

The number of gems and gold adorning his coat, his crown and his hair is almost ridiculous; the golden armour is surely unnecessarily engraved with blinding diamonds, and the belt too heavy with its sapphire studs. The only recognisable part of the ensemble is his fur-lined coat, similar to the one he had worn on their travels. It’s the sort he still favours in his daily wear, but even this one has been embroidered with Durin’s stars and crown.

Bilbo can only imagine the amount of work that has gone into getting him into it all, how time-consuming and ungainly the process must have been. To a hobbit like him, it is all a bit too much, a bit too gleaming and a bit too untrue to the image he has of his King—but it must be what pleases the dwarven eye, for the murmurs around him are of approval only. He understands, of course. In spite of the overwhelming fineries, and the crown heavy upon his brow, Thorin still makes for a becoming king.

He passes by them, but his focus is the dais to which he is headed, and the throne that sits upon it. Only as he has gone does Bilbo see the bride coming down the Western bridge.

She is garbed in brilliant blue robes, her golden hair bedazzled and loose of any braids, her beard in sweet ringlets and her crystal-like eyes bright with mirth. Her gown is filled with gold and shining as light is cast upon the detailed embroidery. Her hands are bejewelled with heavy rings; a necklace of sapphires and diamonds rests upon her generous bosom. The proposal-gift, Bilbo remembers.

The epitome of dwarven beauty she must be. Every gaze upon her seems filled with admiration and awe, and no small amount of envy.

“It’s like they had them dipped in tar and rolled around in the treasury a bit before sending ‘em here,” Bofur whispers just behind him, forcing Bilbo to clear his throat in order to hide a snort as the bitterness clears a little from his tongue.

The young princes are not as subtle in their snickering, but Dwalin and Balin puts a stop to it with two powerful jabs to their sides.

He sends Bofur a half-smile, conveying his agreement, but directs his attentions up front not to be of inconvenience to the dwarves around him; one of the guild masters seems to be having a moment, while another blows teary-eyed into a neat handkerchief. It has him distracted just a little from the churning feeling in his stomach that he is very hesitant to name.

Thorin and the bride reach the dais.

Dáin begins the ceremony. He quips about never having thought he would see his cousin wed in his own Kingdom, inducing many romantic sighs from the congregation, and many more, quieter ones as the old rites of Durin’s folk take place before them.

A bond laced through with gleaming silver thread is wrapped around their wrists and hands as a chorus of dwarves hum softly on an old tune of devotion and loyalty, which Ori translates loosely in his ear. A crown of gold and obsidian and diamond is placed upon the bride’s brow, crowning her in royalty.

Thorin turns to the crowd, his hand clasped with his bride’s, and Dáin announces them grandly as the King Under the Mountain and his Queen.

The court rejoices, exploding into applause and cheer. Bilbo claps along, quietly observing the brightly smiling Queen and her handsome King, privately thinking that he has not seen such a wistful, closed expression on Thorin’s face since he had seen the secret door on Durin’s Day and thought it forever shut.

_-_

The only thing grander than ceremony itself is surely the feast that follows. Meats and fruits adorn every platter, and ale and wine flow freely along the long tables. Every guest is bid to tuck in, to fill their bellies with hearty stew, salty strips of meat, bitter mead and sweet wine as the Royal Couple make their rounds among the tables and bid their gratitude to the attending lords and dignitaries.

Bilbo nibbles on his fruits and sips his mead and makes himself not seek out Thorin’s crowned head above the sea of people. He lets himself be engaged in a conversation with Balin about other various grand events Erebor has held, and of other splendours that he hopes they will have cause and resources to include in their celebrations at a later time, such as foreign sweet meats and fireworks from the Orocarni mountains to the far east. Once the ports in Lake Town are rebuilt and the fleets can start sailing the rivers again, only then will the riches of the Kingdom Under the Mountain become akin to what it once was.

Thorin’s own coronation had none of this. Only attended by a tired and tattered army from the Iron Hills, still mourning and burying their dead, Thorin was crowned in the presence of his loyal Company, a lone hobbit and a wizard, while the fields outside the mountain were still smoking from the pyres that burned the gnarly bodies of their enemies.

No feast had followed. There was no drink to be shared. And so, Bilbo thinks again: Erebor truly deserves this moment of celebration, even if he finds himself conflicted to share in it.

He cannot unhear the praises of the wedded pair from the tables over, of how they “do make such a handsome couple, don’t they”, and other approvals and acclamations as such. He much prefers Bofur’s earlier claim of “rolled in tar and jewels” and still finds enough amusement in it to let it tug on his lips and make him seem less indifferent to the celebrations around him. Perhaps he might actually appear to be enjoying himself.

The orchestra has already started playing merrily when the King comes by their table with his newly crowned Queen at his side to greet his most loyal companions: The Company of Thorin Oakenshield. The dwarves that took back Erebor. They all bow amiably for her, and Bilbo keeps his gaze on the grapes on his plate for the whole ordeal, except to glance upon the Queen’s ringed fingers as he kisses the air above them.

He decides quickly to retire to his rooms before the dancing can start, ignoring the way his belly rumbles, not nearly as full as a feast should have made it. He cannot make himself eat or drink any more. His stomach is already troubled enough as it is.

He slips out the doors just as the King and Queen is about to share their first dance, relieved when no one sees him or halts him, for he is sure his ailing heart will not bear to witness it.

-

Bilbo gasps as the body on top of his drives deeper into him, further clouding his already crumbling sensibilities. The sound that leaves him then is almost primal, a little embarrassing at the best, would be absolutely mortifying if there was even an inch of respectability left in him that cared. He doubts it, nothing feels like so any longer.

He only feels the heat of skin against his, only hears the heavy breaths of his lover, preens as their acts brings rumbling, deep groans rolling through him. He feels light, yet heavy still, used in all the right ways as his body opens up and takes. He leans back and his hands clench his sheets. Another thrust, _deeper still_ , pulls a tight whine from him as he bites his lip and his head spins with the bright pleasure of it.

“Are you hurting?” Thorin stops, and Bilbo want to reprimand him and demand he continues right where he’s left off. It takes him a moment to find his words though, leaving him to pant and whine incoherently before he can finally plead “more, please, again” repeatedly, and not in that particular order.

His lover delivers— _of course, Thorin always does_ —his grip on him tighter as he braces his feet on the bed and gives as he has asked.

He doesn’t know what he had expected when Thorin had knocked on his door long after the wedding feast, when he should by all expectations be _elsewhere_ , pleasing his new Queen in their matrimonial chambers.

There’s pain of course—jealousy, fiercer than he had thought himself capable of—anger, yes, but not a fiery kind, for it was doused by hope and, most of all, relief.

Pure, unaltered relief when Thorin’s frame had sunk against his own, light and beautiful relief to feel his arms tighten around him, lift him off the ground and carry him to his bed as the door shut behind them, pressing sweet, apologetic kisses to his forehead, his tear-stained cheeks, his lips—unceasing, adoring.

Bilbo swallows all those other feelings and lets him. He lets him relieve him of his nightshirt, lets himself feel the thrill of it when Thorin releases himself from his trousers, pulls his tunic over his head so that he may be admired by the hobbit on the bed beneath him. He lets Thorin descend on him then, hungry and craving, as if the feast has not filled him either—as if his bride has not satisfied him as she should.

He’s wondered on it, of course. How can he not? He’s wondered on the flavours of their kisses, from the sweet mead to the bitter pipe-leaf, tried to distinguish if one of them is hers. He can’t quite stop himself from trying to categorising the scents in his hair, the marks on his skin as if he will find traces of her there. Even as he takes him into his mouth he wonders on the taste, if Thorin has come right from his duties that night to find him, if there is still a hint of her wetness left in the folds of the skin where he swallows around the head—if it’s really right for him to be doing this anymore.

He entertains these thoughts and many like them, but he does not stop. He takes, and takes and will continue to take, he knows—as long as Thorin is willing to give.

Perhaps, after all, hobbits are not spared the greed of dwarves.

-

“Today should have been our ceremony.”

Bilbo feels the declaration, spoken in the aftermath of their heady pleasure, push the air out of him like a punch to the stomach.

He has not dared let himself think it, has banished all such thoughts of claim and belonging related to him ever since the lords of the council had made the King bend to their terms. And yet, here Thorin is, announcing it to him _after the fact_ , drawing out that painful longing in his greedy heart as if he does not know how cruel he is being.

“Please don’t say that.”

“You have to know,” Thorin urges insistently. His fingers are still laced with his, on the pillow next to his royal head atop a sea of dark hair, Bilbo spread languidly across his chest and feeling his words through his skin as much as he hears them. “It all means nothing.”

Bilbo shushes him, lips hovering above his King’s in the lightest of touches, butterfly-feet atop a dandelion. “It’s alright. I know.”

Thorin kisses him softly then, and smiles warmly when they part, but his eyes are not satisfied.

“Will you not hear me, dear heart?”

“No, I will. Of course I will.”

Another smile. Another kiss, soft still, but more intent.

“She can take the titles. I do not pretend to give them gladly, for there is only one I would bestow them upon.” He strokes his cheek meaningfully, and Bilbo holds his gaze then. “But she cannot seize my heart. A consort already rules in its chambers. A lover already reigns over my body. A soul is already bound to mine.”

Another kiss, harder this time, intended to make him short of breath. Thorin achieves this, forcing him to breathe deeply through his nose so that the dwarf king may savour his lips. His body thrums beneath this show of strength, his will bending to its domination.

“It will please me to see their faces when they learn they will have none of these.”

Bilbo swallows the lump in his throat, trying to tie his arousal down with ropes of reason. “It’s impossible. They will want to see her bear you an heir.”

“She will not,” Thorin says then, calm yet, although Bilbo can feel in him a simmering anger—but not for him.

No, never again for him.

“I have an heir, and I will not father another. I swear by my heart.” He traces his fingers over Bilbo’s chest. “My heart. My beloved.”

He kisses him harder then, and Bilbo lets him. And despite how cruel it is of him, something twists and curls in him, pleased that Thorin is there, in Bilbo’s chambers, kissing and being sweet with him and making love to him while the Queen sits alone in the royal chambers and the King holds no interest for returning.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on tumblr @stupidfatpenguin I've been lurking around the tags for a while though I haven't really made contact lol.
> 
> If there are still people around, please show yourself! I'm dying to meet you! x


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